now we are eight

Eight years ago, when he was a mere fifty-five (to the day!), he sent an email -- want to go out to an orchard?

I did. It was the first day I laid eyes on this tall guy who drove up in an ancient red car with a peeling stripe. (The car is still around, though the stripe is gone, as is most of it's body actually.)

We spent most of our days in each others company since that October day. In the first five years he'd be over at whatever dump (his description) I lived in. In the last three years, we've made our home at the farmette.

Shouldn't we sweep the leaves off the glass roof?
You don't like them there? They'll drift off eventually.
What if we get too many?

He stayed up most of the night fixing up a new laptop for my mom (her old one crashed and the new one has too many cluttery things on it -- at nearly 90, she'll never be able to navigate it unless all the quirks and foibles of the new Windows operating system are removed or made easier to work through). By the time he was ready to sleep, Isis was ready to be restless. We accept the fact that some nights will be calm and Isis will stay put or stay downstairs or stay invisible and on other nights he'll be causing a fuss. You can never tell which night will come when.

Breakfast. Pancakes, for a special day.






Want to watch vows on the NYTimes video?
It's odd how much we like to do this -- watch other people find joy in being together.







The idea was to go out to an orchard today. Not because Ed likes to commemorate anything as sentimental as our coming together however many years ago, but because it is time to get cider for the winter. Twice we bundled up and twice it began to rain just as we stepped outside. But the third time it stayed dry.

Still, it's too far to drive to the orchard now. Instead, we go to our favorite cross country skiing park -- just two miles east of the farmette, and we walk there.











The funny thing is, when I first saw Ed, there, in front of my apartment, he was waiting for me, pacing the railway tracks that run parallel to the road. Coincidentally, today, we are on tracks again.





Are you done? It's cold!
I want to find a rock to crack a black walnut.
You can't eat that! It looks rotten!
It looks fine. Want to try a piece?

On the path again.  The clouds release a small drizzle.

Do you suppose we should finish the front entrance to the farmhouse this spring? There are rotting boards and crumbling steps...
Maybe.

A few years back I would have wanted to do this for the aesthetics alone. Now I don't care that the door facing the road looks funky and bit run down. For us, the focal point of the farmhouse is the back, with the porch, looking out onto the sheep shed and the barn. But we like working on projects together. The reconstruction of the front entrance will be one such opportunity to do that again. I'm sure the design will be a tad original. And quirky. There always is that element of quirkiness to the this place.

We finish our walk just as the drizzle really gets going.





Tomorrow, we are told, is the official last day of our growing season. The hard frost comes, all tender plants will die back. We'll pick the last of the berries before then and I'll cast one last fond glance at all those flowers that kept right on going. Next year -- we'll see you again next year.

My older girl and her husband come over for dinner. We don't think of it as celebratory. Not really.

Hey, have a slice of cheese before the kids come...
Okay. Oh, good one! I suppose it's for them?
No, it's okay -- eat as much as you want.

I stir up the sauce for the pasta and saute the shrimp and chunks of salmon.







After, he and I watch old Seinfelds and Isis snuggles right next to us. The cat likes it that way. Both he and Ed doze off. I finish up the Ocean post.

Hey, thank you, Ed. And happy birthday.

growing things

The farmette has many trees. On balance, that's a good thing. Shade. A feeling of privacy. Spring buds, autumn colors.






(For my breakfast photo, I give you the mighty crab, which, in the morning hours, is abuzz with robins and their compatriots, hacking away at the red fruits.)







But for the most part, these trees aren't your sweet little trees put in some years back, still waiting for their adolescence. These are mega trees that tower and explode with new growth each year. And of course, some branches die off.

We have moved beyond the impasse, Ed and I. He no longer objects to sawing off dead branches. But to go after live limbs (ones that block light or bully their way into a space occupied by another) --  he says he cannot do it. And so as we once again team up to do our seasonal tree pruning (at least at the level where we can reach branches with our pole power saw), the negotiations begin.

That one. It needs to go.
No it doesn't.
It's killing these beautiful shrubs.
Fine, just that one. Sorry tree!
It'll love you for it. Trees like to be pruned.
How do you know?

And so on.






It's a massive project and we only have time and energy for so much of it. As we haul the last load of branches to the enormous wood pile out back, I look over toward the fields to the north of the farmette. They're used by truck farmers as well, though not anyone we know.






The skies are of an uncertain mode. Cloudy. Not cloudy. Partly so. It makes for a beautiful display! But I know what's coming: frost this next night. The most vulnerable flowers are having their last flowering moment.











Enough nostalgia. There's more work to be done! In the prairie grasses out back I see that we have our old foe trying to make a comeback -- the honeysuckle that we'd worked so hard to eradicate is sprouting again in small clumps.

We get to it: they all have to be clipped back. You leave one standing and you'll have twelve cousins joining it in the space of a month.


A commenter asked about our master plan here, at the farmette. It really is quite simple. We love that it is wild and untamed. That most would say "overgrown" rather than "manicured." That every flower bed is freewheeling and seemingly unplanned.

But there are limits to that prairie freedom out there. If honeysuckle were allowed free reign, these puffs of prairie seed would soon disappear.





If creeping charlie continued to mount its aggressive expansion, we'd lose our raspberries, our flower beds, our strawberry patches.

So we try to channel growth. To moderate, to redirect.


...And then we retreat inside, for a late late lunch of peanut butter sandwiches with Ed's grape jam, eaten at the kitchen table (bathed in the light of a bright Fall day).






The farmette at her seasonal best. Stunning, even if a bit unkempt and wild around the edges..

embattled

We continue to wage war even when we know the chance of victory is slim. The enemy isn't necessarily stronger than we are, but it is resilient. It'll come back again and again, even if we push them back with our exceptional might.

This is how I feel about bramble roses and creeping charlie.

When I first moved to the farmette, I thought that where I wanted there to be raspberries, there would be raspberries. Where I wanted flowers, there would be flowers. Sure, weeds, quack grass -- they're part of the deal here. But places where I sought control, where I waged war, would be mine. I have force and determination on my side!

So do they.

This morning, after breakfast...






...I work. Long, tedious hours of school work. Systematically I check off pages, write down assignments, take  notes on what I'd read. By afternoon, I am spent.

Time to refresh. Time to maybe put in the bulbs. I have some five dozen -- crocuses, tulips. No daffodils. I have hundreds of those in already.

But I get distracted. When did the bramble roses get so out of control? How did the creeping charlie creep into my primary flower bed? Ah, the nasturtium! In its abundant phase, it covered over the weeds. It covered over everything.







And of course, life continues and I have my attention elsewhere and now rose brambles are coming out of every conceivable space and creeping charlie is about to declare victory.

Not yet! I have might! I have determination!

I spend two hours pulling out deep roots of invasive devils. Heave! Pull! More! Come on!

Ed comes home and finds me with blood dripping down my face (bramble stalks fight back).

I suppose I should feel victorious. I brought things under control. For now.


 


But I know it's a temporary victory. It isn't a blow out celebration. They're hiding, but they'll be back. Next year, they'll be back.

But for now, I have to believe that I've made progress.

Dinner is of the easy kind: salad, veggies, eggs. That's it. Nothing more.

relax!

Breakfast, in the beauty of the windowed kitchen.






Outside -- it's raining again.











I was chatting with a physician about one thing or another (for example -- being excessively busy came up in the conversation) and she said -- have you considered going to relaxation therapy? (I'm guessing it's like physical therapy, except you're working on a wounded spirit rather than a pulled muscle.)

Well now, if I scheduled relaxation lessons, I'd be even more busy, wouldn't I? Yoga, for example, was my strategic relaxation class and I haven't gone since the semester started. There's a reason for that.

But she persisted. She thinks I need to slow down. Sleep longer. Etc.
Ha! All that will happen when I retire! 
Retire? She asks. My, that sounds good! (I should note that I'd place her age at around 32.)
I almost retorted -- meet you in relaxation class! -- but I didn't. Perhaps she doesn't have time for that kind of indulgence. Mindfulness, relaxation -- all noble ideas, if you have time to pause to consider them.

Still, I do get the message. And to prove to myself that I am on the ball, a slow rolling ball at that, I pause on my way home at Owen Park. It is one of the loveliest places in Madison to admire the changing palate of autumn colors. Surely checking in on the foliage there would give me the needed balance for an otherwise full day.






But I never leave the car. The photos are taken from a rolled down window.






Why? Because I'm already late for my next meeting.

I breathe in the scent of a mossy, wet forest...






...take one more picture from the seat of the car...





...and then get going.


In other news, we are bracing for frost next week. I don't mind the frost. I do mind that we haven't done the work to get the farmette ready for winter. The raspberry patch is in shreds. The old limbs on the many trees here need to be sawed off. Several packs of bulbs need to be planted. The porch needs a paint job. And the new orchard -- oh, the new orchard! It so needs our attention! It will never survive another winter of deer unless we build shields to protect it!

I add these things to my to do list and wonder if I should put at the bottom of it --  "attend relaxation sessions."


Still later, Ed comes home, listens to my summary of the day and steps in to take charge of my relaxation issues: Tennis. Now!

I am terrible at first, better as we play. It takes me a while to unwind.


On the ride home we wave to Framer Lee. It may be that this is the last of it -- that we may never see her harvesting flowers across the road again.


 


She waves her hand, pretending to hide from my camera. The flowers, Lee! I shout.  It's all about the flowers!

Isis greets us as we pull in with that meow that says -- where have you been?! 
Come inside, dear boy, I tell him. It's time to fix dinner. I got some fresh fish at the market. You can have the skin.

He appears happy with the idea. I settle in to cook.

turning the corner?

Are we at the point in Fall where the good weeks are behind us and the bare trees and cold winds begin to drive us nuts?

I don't think so. Though many leaves are down, many more are still vaguely green and clinging to trees. Cosmos flowers are blooming their heads off. Nasturtium as well. And why shouldn't they? We haven't had a hard frost yet. (We haven't had any frost in fact. Unusual for mid October.)






A walk in the garden, then breakfast.






I study the weather maps. I see that this is it: we're consistently going to be hitting the thirties in the nights ahead. And so decisions have to be made. It is the time to bring in plants that cannot survive a frost. This includes all those that stand in pots by the walkway to the farmhouse.





But which ones?

In years past, I let them all fade off with the season. Annuals are called annuals for a reason. I was not their savior -- nature deemed that they should retire after a year of blooms. But last year I saw that it was possible to winter over some of the vulnerable stalks by bringing them indoors.  And though things got a little spindly by season's end, we did have some memorable blooms inside in the dead of winter and moreover, when I put those survivors back outside in spring, they really took off! In gratitude I think. Spindly stems turned to a profusion of color and blooms.

Still, I have only so much eastern and southern exposure and things are already getting kind of crowded, what with geraniums and irises and the old regular indoor stuff. So I point a finger -- that one comes in! And that one!


 


Okay, one more -- that one!






And with the heaviest of hearts I turn my back to the ones who don't seem quite vigorous enough. Let your seeds drift, your life will continue in the next generation, I tell them, as if they needed a prompt! Nature has a way of figuring things out without my assistance.


So if Nature calls the shots, can we at least learn to follow meekly in her tracks?

No we cannot.
I look carefully at the weather forecast and, reassured that the probability of rain is set at 0%, I take Rosie to work again.

(Here's a photo from campus for those who know Madison and our tradition of putting flamingos on campus mall in mid-fall.)





And when I finish teaching, I am dismayed to see a fine drizzle set in.

Why don't they have windshield wipers on helmet visors?

I'm cold and sopping wet. Never mind: each additional week of rosie rides is like a special bonus. One more week behind me and seven to go before the end of the semester. Maybe winter is around the corner, but I'm banking on a few more good weeks ahead. Rain or shine, rosie and I continue to face the winds and forge ahead. Even as it surely looks less promising out there on the ride home. Recall yesterday's view over the lake. Compare it to the one tonight (taken at more or less the same hour).

return

It's funny to wake up at home to what I would regard as quintessentially Irish weather: misty rain, cool breezes - the kind that make those cheeks so rosy.

I had good travel weather yesterday, so surely I ought not complain.

And here's another category of "no complaints" from me -- one that may surprise  you; I have nothing bad to say about the air travel experience.

The flights were more or less on time.

The seats were comfortable.

The food was good.

The champagne flowed freely (meaning it was free).

And another detail -- one you surely would not expect anymore: the airline (AF) informed us that they commissioned a prominent designer to work out a new design pattern for the plastic eating utensils used in economy class. Whereas these days on most flights we're used to being herded into tight seats, with no promise of food -- with the exception of small snacks and you're charged Las Vegas big bucks for those -- here, I see an attempt at real class. Even if it is plastic class.

I did work the whole flight long (and it was a long flight) and I caught no great photos of the descent into Chicago (what can I say -- the city was on the other side), but the whole travel thing was a curiously pleasant experience.

I haven't come into Chicago's O'Hare (International) in a while so I was surprised to see a new system in place for passport control. Self-service stands -- sort of like you have in supermarkets: scan your own! But of course, then some authoritative person has to review your work. This isn't groceries, it's your entry into a country. So after waiting for a self service scanner, you wait again for a real person. It's all very confusing, but I'm sure efficient in some fashion that I don't quite yet understand.

And because I was toward the front of the plane, and because I ran to get to the passport line, and because I said "no" to all the questions asked by the scanner  (I hope that was correct -- I did not read them all that carefully) and because I had no luggage to pick up (actually no luggage, period), I noted that I had all of 8 minutes to make it to another terminal and the bus station, and you know what? I did it! Ran, ran, ran, knocking people down left and right (O'Hare was very crowded), then on to the bus just as the driver was shutting the door and getting ready to pull out.


At home, Isis was so happy to see me that he stayed by my side all evening long. I ate chili prepared by Ed and then soon after I retired. Isis followed. I know I shall complain endlessly in the future about the cat taking up so much of my bed space, but on this night it felt snug and warm.

In the middle of the night, Ed had an insight about the porch roof and so at around 3 a.m. he climbed out there with flashlight and some tape (he's experimenting with a better way to seal off some of the trim; his excuse in doing it at such an odd hour? It was supposed to rain soon). That was interesting to observe for a few minutes;  otherwise, the night passed uneventfully. Meaning, Isis behaved.

In the morning, there is the matter of breakfast. Happy to be eating oatmeal again, in the kitchen today because I just can't get enough of that new light pouring in, even on a rather gloomy and wet (remember, Irish weather!) morning.

I did notice that Ed's hair has grown beyond the reasonable mess that it usually is.





Out come the scissors. Haircut time.






And then it's time to zip over to campus. It's Tuesday and that's a very busy day for me. Though not so busy that I can't produce at least one photo of the current state of the yard, looking toward the barn and sheep shed (for the new reader -- we do not have sheep; just a shed, converted by Ed into workable space of sorts).






And a shot toward the farmhouse -- all flush and pretty with light pouting in through the new glass porch roof.






Late, late in the evening, I point Rosie (the motor scooter)  toward home. It's just barely warm enough to be out on her, but I'm up for it. And as I swing by the lake, I note that the trip does come with rewards...





Most trips, even short ones on Rosie, do come with rewards.

And that's a good thing.

to Ireland

At the AirBnB in Bray, my host, Gary left a book of poetry by my bed. I read it and pick one that is closest to the state of my soul right now. (Scratch the third word in the fourth line and it's perfect.) Here it is:

The Lake of Innisfree, by W.B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.


My last day in Ireland begins at Ballina-Killaloe. Looking out, I see that low lying clouds have settled in over the hills. Rain is possible.

In my slice of heaven -- the airy cottage looking out over the hills of County Clare -- I sit down to a leisurely breakfast. Today, with market berries added to the mix.






I walk to town then, along the usual road, a bit of a tight squeeze in parts, but lovely nonetheless. (And when I pause to let a car pass, I get the question -- are you out walking, or do you want a lift? Walking, I say, and loving the views!)






In Killaloe I have a meet-up. An Ocean reader whom I do not know -- an American expat, living here with her husband, contacted me to say they were passing through this area. Sure, I'd love a coffee! -- I responded. It's wonderful to hear the perspective of someone who is from my home state, but lives here now.

I take my newly discovered friends to Ponte Vecchio. A crowded space this morning, though we find a corner table (as do others...)






...and settle in for a wonderful, long talk as the kind waitperson brings us our coffees and teas.






I tell these young guys (they're in their very early thirties) they're living my dream from long ago (it's buried now and replaced by a different dream -- one that orbits around the farmhouse). They're just in the process of moving from the Dublin area out to the beautiful countryside of southern Ireland. To grow their foods and raise their chickens and buy the paper each morning at the village news agent. (And maybe let out a room through AirBnB -- you never know.) After a couple of years here, they're ready to put down roots.

I think back to my own transition from being just a student and visitor in the States to being a permanent resident. Some people know from the get go where they want to live. Others (them, me) take a while to figure it out.

Warmed by their description of the Irish life, I return to my AirBnB (to be accurate, they give me a lift back -- I enjoyed myself so much that I lost track of time), say good bye to Mary and zip out, determined to speed all the way to Bray. No stopping! No photos! Just get there already!

But I stop anyway. It's sort of irresistible: the highway has a billboard noting a village as being of special interest -- Moneygall, where it appears Obama -- or O'Bama, as he is affecionately called here -- has ancestral ties. (The man in the tractor gave me a high thumbs up as he passed in front of the two flags on village houses.)






When Obama stopped here in 2011, they say he shook virtually every villager's hand. I think they're still reeling from the memory of it. In this next photo, you'll see a young family taking in the main village focal point. It's a funny mixture of Irish, American and Polish, as they are in fact from Poland.





Okay. That was a ten minute detour. Back on the road, listening to a long discussion on the radio about a golfer who disclosed his yips. I'd never heard of yips before and every time they use the word, I think of dogs barking. In this way I race along the highways of Ireland for the meet up with Gary, my AirBnB host in Bray.

The space that I'm renting from him is a little different in concept. It's more like "a room in the home of  ----" (fill in the blank here). I'm not 100% clear on the logistics, but I think Gary lives here when he is with his girlfriend, Alessandra, who is from Sicily. Or maybe it's the opposite -- maybe she lives here with him when they are not in her home? I really can't fully explain it. But I'm definitely sharing their small flat.

Gary is an incredibly kind and patient host. You have no idea how many emails we exchanged to clarify my arrival details. And once I do arrive, he is there, playing his music and offering me everything and anything -- from coffee, doughnuts, wine, even a Thai dinner cooked by him if I want it (Mary, back in Ballina, also offered to feed me.)

But I decline it all -- I do want to see some of Bray and especially the coastal part. Gary prints out maps and gives directions and food recommendations and I want to tell him (he's a fairly recent AirBnB host) -- you cannot devote this much energy to every guest -- you'll burn out. (Sort of like teaching with too much passion -- surely a guarantor of early retirement.)

I'm quite close to the coast and so I walk there, to the beginning of a long boardwalk that extends from one end of town to the other. It's windy and not a little nippy and still, because it's Sunday and because the skies are in their partly cloudy mode, there are families and couples and groups of friends, enjoying a brisk promenade along the edge of the Irish Sea.





















...and in the case of children, enjoying ice cream. (Though some opt for chips.)






I had intended to walk all the way past town, along the cliffs, into the next town in fact, but when I came across a sign telling me I was still many miles away, I called it quits and turned back. I'd had my beautiful walk, paying homage to the waters that splash at Ireland from all directions.






Now it's time to eat. Gary had recommended three places and I chose the most modest of the lot, though I have to admit -- I ordered immodestly: Irish lobster. The waiter told me there are only three places that produce good lobsters -- Maine, Canada and Ireland -- and though I doubt that's entirely accurate (Brittany would surely protest the exclusion), still, I was convinced enough to try it. (It helped that I paid for no breakfasts and had no lunches during the entire trip. And in fact, this was a very reasonable pricing of a very huge lobster dinner: 32 Euros - about $42 - for the whole thing, service and taxes included.)






The meal has an Italian flair to it (and two Italian waiters -- neither of whom speak English well) and so my lobster virtually swims in a very delicate tomato sauce. It is a wonderful ending to my visit. Funny how I began my Ireland writing with a reference to an Italian song and here I am praising an Italian meal in Ireland. I'll say this -- I had nothing but seafood during this trip -- all from the Irish waters and it was all incredibly delicious.





It's a slow evening at the restaurant and both waiters are chatty. The younger one tells me that his most favorite trip ever was to the States, two years ago. He took the bus from Chicago to Nashville and then to Texas and back.
That's a lot of bus hours! I'm impressed how much he loved the experience.
Yes, you meet such wonderful people!
I think about my three hour bus trips down to Chicago and how I always hide my nose in my papers during it. No one talks. We are admonished if we do so.

I ask the older, head waiter what brought him to Ireland and I get the predictable response of ambition and curiosity. And the reason for staying? -- the wife. But he tells me how much her really loves Bray: it's so much smaller than Dublin. People know me, I know them. And the sea! Ah yes, the sea...






He asks which parts of Italy I had visited and after I list the various regions and towns, he looks rather shocked that I neglected to include the place where he came from -- the east-central coast of the Italian boot. Next time, I tell him. Next time.

At the AirBnB, my host and a friend (that's just a guess) are settling down to a home cooked meal and after, Gary explains that there is a terrific if rather violent Irish show on the telly that we could all watch. I would have retreated to my room, but I rather like sitting on the couch, looking over my photos, surfing the, for once, speedy Internet in their company, so I stay.

When the show is done, Alessandra comes out of some hidden room, terribly tired and not looking all that well (rumor has it that a birthday bash the previous day did her in). She chats for a while then retreats to wherever she came from, promising to knock on my door at 6 a.m., as she herself has to be up and out by then.

Gary plays the guitar for a while, singing some recent U2 hit that is lovely and it is with some reluctance that I finally say goodnight and goodbye too, as I will be leaving rather early and will not see them again.

And I do leave early. Before Alessandra comes around. Before any semblance of light, before many cars are out on the highway. And in less than an hour, I am at the Dublin airport.

P.S. Ocean readers, I landed in Chicago, clicked on my phone and found your most beautiful emails and messages. How I love the fact that I am not alone in this enterprise of looking for the beauty in the common tasks we all take on, the world over! Thank you so very much.
With love,
Nina